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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933737">No Destinies, No Fates Ordained Binds Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoQwerty/pseuds/NeoQwerty'>NeoQwerty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bendings Of The Light [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Normalized Teen Sexual Abuse, Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, Implied Fantasy Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentioned Vivec | Vehk, Nerevar Isn't Prophecied, Pre-First Council (Elder Scrolls)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2018-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2018-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:09:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoQwerty/pseuds/NeoQwerty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nerevar, no longer of minor House Mora, dreams of possible futures where he's not a caravan guard as they enter the Mourning Hold.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bendings Of The Light [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963096</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No Destinies, No Fates Ordained Binds Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, Nerevar wishes things would just... <i>change</i>. Wishes belonging to a House wasn't everything that matters to the settled Chimer, wishes traditions and customs weren't so rigidly followed by the wandering Chimer tribes, wishes it wasn't so <i>bad</i> to look different, wishes they weren't all so eager to scheme and fight themselves when they are being crushed under the heel of the Nordic Empire, wishes they weren't so eager to cause those who serve beneath them pain and suffering, wishes he was more skilled at the social intrigues and political games the Houses play, day in and day out.</p><p>But, ah, if wishes were worth any salt, he would have bought the whole of Mereth and changed it himself, instead of selling his sword to unpleasant canvasari nobles in the hopes of ingratiating himself to one of the Houses to become <i>someone</i>. To exist as something more than another ashlander exile, feeding himself with the blood he is hired to spill. But Nerevar is realistic, and knows that the chances of any of his wishes and desires happening are slim to none, especially when he stands on his own.</p><p>When they stop by the Mourning Hold on Captain Serynam's orders, and he and the other guards are given leave for the rest of the day, he wanders the streets, lets himself imagine for fleeting moments what it might be like to still be of minor House Mora, to have forgiven his uncle's hatred for men instead of running off to join the ashlanders, out of spite. Perhaps he could have become a merchant, bought a canvasar or two, made good enough coin to pay his guards more fairly than Serynam pays them. Perhaps he would have already retired, mindful of the short lifespan of those with mannish blood and withered magicka, instead of gambling hopes of some far-off possibility he might afford to retire in a century on his thin Chimer blood.</p><p>He lets himself imagine what it might be like, if he had a co-conspirator, someone clever and shrewd enough to navigate social politics, but from a low or high enough background that they would feel no need to claw and spit at Nerevar to elevate themselves. Looks at all the Chimer milling about, the nobles with their endless trails of sycophants, the servants all scrabbling for purchase, doing favors for their patrons in the hopes of rewards, the whores doing their best to entice would-be customers, selling their bodies so that they can eat.</p><p>The last are uncomfortable to look at, makes him feel both a sharp relief that, for all his lack of magic, of House, of skills, he still has his sword arm to sell, is not reduced to surrendering his very body for survival, and hot on its tail, the shame that he feels that relief, that superiority over the way by which they survive, the guilt over the very fact that he compares his life to theirs when he is clean and fed, simply dusty from the long walks, when many of them are thin and filthy, too young to be living on the streets. But for the very same reason, he forces himself to look over them, as covertly as he can behind the mask, forces himself to face his discomfort to keep himself aware of his flaws.</p><p>And it's as he does so that Nerevar notices one of the whores, in turn, sizing up nobles and their entourage, a sharp and determined gaze like an ashkhan sizing up a battlefield and enemies for the solution to victory. From here, he cannot tell if they are mer or womer, nor their age, but he can see an unusual, wiry beauty to them, despite all the filth caked on skin and rags and oily hair. His feet moves before he consciously thinks, drawn to the sharp, intelligent gaze and curious to know if it's a trick of his eyes or the light, or if their mind is as sharp.</p><p>"Who are you?"</p><p>Softly said, reluctant to draw attention, but Nerevar is curious now, enough to approach someone he never would under other circumstances, doesn't want to be seen talking with by the rest of the canvasari's people, lest they think up something new to throw at him.</p>
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